A Squirrely Kindof Tim at That

Tim, Tim, Tim you are simply to squirrely
to live in Columbus, Ohio. I've heard
it's a mysterious transitional space
where writers can be either sucked into oblivion
or rebound into stardom . . .
When do you get out?

Sigh. Grr, grr. I'm not the squirrle you all hoped
I might be.
I sit here, right now, in this cool space typing
because at the build site it is HOT, sweaty/smelly,
and somewhat dangerous--at least to my bored brain.

When people pick up the nail gun, look down the shooter
and say, "Now why ain't this thing working?" I believe
the situation has turned dangerous. Most of the folks
have been there all week and they are tired, crabby,
and a bit clumsy too =Dangerous. They throw hammers,
hang out windows, half-ass electrical wiring,
eat without washing their hands.
It's a disaster waiting to happen.

Plus, I'm sore. Cinder blocks get heavier
as you move each one. The first couple are light
no problem;
the last few make me tremble.
Wrapping the house & windows was great.
I know what those litttle orange dots are for now,
and I can slice through that stuff with a 4" blade
all too naturally . . .


Reading Joyce, Tim, I think I have finally pinned down
perhaps the single most problem I have with writing:

I am not in love with words.

I am in love with a particular version of myself
that I have created when it comes to voice on page,
and I am in love with ideas,
but I carry no great love for the language itself . . .
letting the letters roll off my tongue with deep relish--
hearing the echo of vowels against my throat, chest, and cheeks . . .
nope. Not for me. Letters are a burden I'd rather lay down
and telepathically communicate emotions & concepts . . .

therefore, I am doomed as a writer:
I have no story--I have no language--just doom.